A Sojourn in Valhalla: A Doorstep Adventure to Obstruction Point

Transitioning from skis to sneakers to cross a large bare spot

Link to Obstruction Point Bike/Ski Video: https://vimeo.com/270742955

The Hurricane Ridge Road is the antithesis of blissful mountain solitude.

At least it’s that way when you are crawling up the mountain on a heavily-loaded bike as a never-ending stream of automobiles flies past: the cars, the motorcycles, the RV’s all blowing out exhaust. Up they went like mechanical salmon, jockeying for a patch of view to fill their screens, a moment of release from their car-clogged, screen-lit existence. The hills vibrated beneath the engines.

The sun beat down full power out of the blue sky, with few opportunities for shade. It seemed like I couldn’t stop sucking water out of the hydration tube in my backpack. I had over 5,000 feet of climbing to look forward to from my Port Angeles home before I got to camp along the Obstruction Point Road. The bike was loaded with camp gear, and a pair of telemark skis laid across the frame.

Somehow, it was going to be worth it, once I got out of the traffic onto the closed road. It would be worth it once I was laying the first tracks atop a ridge surrounded by miles of mountains, snow and stone.

First I had to pedal through several sections of construction below Heart of the Hills. I kept my eyes down so I wouldn’t fixate on the long sections of road above me.

At the park entrance, 2,000 feet above sea level, I waited in the long line of vehicles as heat shimmered off their roofs. Eventually a park ranger walked out to see who already had park passes, and I showed her the wilderness permit on my backpack.

“Have fun,” she said.

“I’ll try.”

I found myself looking up more once the Douglass fir began to close in around the road. The snows on Klahhane Ridge made me feel cooler. I looked past the stopped cars and saw Baker and Glacier Peak resplendent against the blue of the Salish Sea. 

The big broad leaves on trees began to shrink back toward their twigs as I gained elevation. 

The onslaught of autos continued unabated. 

There were a couple of road bikers on the pavement as well. I envied how quickly they moved up the pavement. I’d see them for maybe two bends in the road, and then gone, leaving me to chug along with my payload of skis.

I kept pulling from my tube until there was nothing left and I stopped to refill the bladder at a stream coming out of the pines. I filled up an empty Arizona ice tea jug as well. That was eight more pounds to haul up the hill, but there would be no water readily available on Obstruction Point and I didn’t know how much I could count on snowmelt. 

I stopped at another stream below the Switchback Trail where I didn’t fill up any water (more humans, more likely contamination.) I wanted to go soak my head, but a kid was having the time of his life throwing rocks in the water, while his parents waited in the car.

He should enjoy the freedom while it lasts, I thought.

Dad tapped the horn while the kid made like he didn’t hear, and continued his barrage.

There was a big patch of snow in the shade, and I filled my hat with it.

Refill spot

I hit Obstruction Point Road at about 4:30 p.m. — five and a half hours after I started my pedal.

The view south gave me a perspective of ridge upon ridge upon ridge, decked with snow, crowned by the white throne of Olympus. After two and a half months of springtime weather in Port Angeles it was jarring to see this snow kingdom, think that it was there the whole time, right over my head. The warm existence I inhabited, amidst broadleaves and cut grass only existed on a narrow band between this mountain world and the ocean below it.

A stout metal gate ensured that the parade of motors wouldn’t get past here for now. My route would continue on the eight-mile dirt road, following the ridge-line. The winding, dirt road was the process of being plowed. Last I’d heard, the plows had made it to the PJ Lake trail, which is about halfway to the end.

I tightened my brakes and I started the descent — slowly. The load on the bike rattled along the washboard as I reluctantly checked my speed. I rolled past a couple hikers — though there were few who had abandoned their cars to explore this empty road. 

The downhill was only a short respite however, and I was soon climbing again. I cruised the flats beneath the point of Steeple Rock, and the next drop over to PJ Lake. 

The open road continued. Apparently, the plows had made progress in the days since I got a road status report, I observed. I wondered if they had already plowed to the end.

Now the road was cut out of huge drifts of snow. The white walls rose 10, 15, 20 feet on either side. Yet in other places, the sun had beat the snow down to nothing, and the ground was bone dry and dusty. My nose felt itchy and desiccated in the low humidity.

It was getting closer to 6 pm, and I knew I should start thinking about campsites. Still, I was halfway tempted to keep pedaling. There was a pretty big outhouse at the end of the road where it would be easy to lay a sleeping mat with minimal camp set up to worry about.

I relented from this course when I found a nice flat area in some scrub pine where the snow had melted out.

I set up a large over-tarp, and tied the corner grommets to the shrubs and to my ski boots. Now the fun part. I had brought an old Norwegian snow cutting tool that I’d inherited from my ski-guiding season in Colorado. I used the saw blade to cut blocks out of the hard firn snow nearby and built up a couple of walls to reinforce the shelter.

With that part done, I moved on to dinner. 

Uh oh. Where the hell had I put my cotton balls that I used for firestarter? Oh, that’s right, I’d taken them out of the med kit two weeks ago, when I decided that I wasn’t using them for anything. Idiot.

Fortunately there was some dry grass nearby, that I could appropriate and smear with vaseline. After many, many tries I managed to ignite them and transfer the flames to the solid fuel tablets I’d brought. The flames licked up as the last beams of sun danced over the snow slopes around me. I propped my tiny stove on rocks to boil water.

The main course was a pot of rehydrated mashed potatoes mixed with rehydrated split pea soup, then garnished with some olive oil I’d brought in a tube. Bon appétit! 

A second pot of the stuff, was necessary to stifle the tremendous hunger I’d built up from the day’s exertions.

I lay out on rocks with warmth in my guts as stars — dozens, hundreds, thousands — apparated onto the dark tapestry above. A meteor streaked above the mountains.

No one should live too long with their head down. Everyone should hit the refresh button now and then.

I counted a dozen satellites too. They moved so quickly! I thought about how there were still tribes of people out there who had avoided contact with the rest of the world. Yet, they too must have seen these strange little messengers, unprecedented throughout millennia of star watching, delivering news, surveying the troubled globe below. What did they make of them. They would be an indicator to them as much as they were a reminder to me.

Don’t forget what you are a part of, even if forgetting is what makes you feel free.

Obstruction Point Road beneath my campsite, evening

Dinner rocks, looking out above the Lillian River Valley toward the Elwha 

Evening entertainment

Supper

Tarp camp

Snow blocks reinforce my shelter

Breakfast

I was awake for much of the night wrestling with thoughts and concepts I could hardly remember in the morning. The treacherous wind picked up and worked its icy fingers through the shelter I’d built. 

At breakfast, I dug out the grass I had saved in my pocket (where it would stay dry against the morning dew) and began another fire.

I moved leisurely, through breakfast, photographs, hauling gear back to the bike. Before I left camp, I emptied the Arizona jug into my hydration bladder, then filled the jug with snow and tied it to a south-facing rock where the sun would melt it. I let myself start by walking the bike, which really was not much slower than pedaling uphill and more relaxing. 

The cleared road ended within a quarter mile. I took the skis off and put climbing skins on the bottom. I settled into the slide and glide shuffle through the corn mush snow. Already, it was so warm that I was down to my tank top. Resplendent views of peaks reared up in all directions.

I ended up having to take my skis off, at the top of a rise because the snow was completely gone. My telemark bindings are a complete bear to get in and out of, so I kept the boots clipped in and took my feet out and into my running shoes. Within a hundred yards of walking, I got back to a line of snow next to a tall cornice. Fracture lines ran through the snow on my left — go over there and there was a possibility that the whole thang would break away in a house-sized collapse, sending me down a couple hundred feet down with it.

I stayed well to the right, though the bare rock on the other side meant that I could only make it so far.

Beyond this little hazard zone, the snow opened up into a broader area. I met two ladies who were skiing from the other direction after a night at the end of the road.

It was an easy climb with skins from here, they reported, and I wouldn’t have to take the skis off again. 

“It was windy last night,” one of them remarked.

I told them that I’d thought about going out sleeping in the outhouse at the end of the road that evening.

“You would have had to have dug the house out,” the other woman said, “It’s completely buried.”

Well, that was good to know, I said. I’d much rather spend a day like this skiing than digging.

They continued back toward the pavement, and I proceeded up the hill.

I reached the outhouse, and sure enough it was buried, almost to the roof. There’d been no morning movement yet, but if I had one, it wasn’t going to be here. I was grateful that I’d camped where I did. The outhouse also marked the last part of my route where I had travelled before.

On my doorstep adventure up the Deer Park Road, last year I’d approached this point from the east, and I’d also biked up here to run on Elk Mountain back in the fall. On both trips, I had looked at the ridge going southeast from here, and decided that it would be an amazing place to ski. 

Today, I would do that ski.

And the plowing ends...

Looking out at the Strait and Mount Baker

Buried outhouse at the end of Obstruction Point Road

Amazing is just an abstract word that I could employ to describe the sense of being there, a feeling that is difficult to recreate with words or pictures. Skiing on the 6,000-foot ridge was a feeling of euphoria. It was the involuntary whoop that left my lips when I saw the beautiful, perfect world around me. There was no one else, no other tracks. The Olympic Mountains were stacked up on all sides. 

The south face of Elk Mountain was almost completely melted, a talus slope dropping down a couple thousand feet into Badger Valley. My route took me along the ridge leading up toward the 6,700 foot summit of Moose Mountain, with several smaller sub-peaks waiting in front of it. My eyes followed the Grand Creek valley toward the Gray Wolf River and Dungeness to the blue line of the Salish Sea.  The cornices were even more massive than the one I had encountered earlier. Snowballs the size of SUVs had broken off into the valley below.

Again, I encountered sections where I had to maneuver near the deadly fracture lines, with bare ground on my other side of the skis.

I was still going through my water at an incredible rate. I drank and drank and felt no need to pee. My nostrils felt parched. I put a long-sleeve shirt on, even though it was sweltering, because I had already developed a mean burn on my shoulder and lower arm.

The tiny alpine ponds below me had begun to thaw at last, the water creating turquoise rings around white centers. I was particularly taken by the improbable island of snow on one south-slope. The desert colors of the broken rock surrounding it, made the trees and white look like a window to another world.

I mixed with snow into my granola for the extra water.

I skied another mile to the summit of one of the sub-peaks, which had a view of a slab avalanche. Almost half a mile of snow had been cut off in a clean line along a steep slope. Below, lay a massive pile of snowy rubble. 

I skied down off the sub-peak and into the next dip in ridge. The extra distance gave me a great view into the valley and Mount Baker. Going beyond this, the way was much steeper, and I’d need to take the skis off to make any headway. The temptation was there, yet, I also realized that doing so would add an element of fear, hardship and uncertainty to what was shaping up to be a perfect day.

I decided it was O.K. to turn around.

Snowfall

Strange blue water

The window in the wall

A fracture to watch out for

View over Badger Valley

Glaciers, ridges, snow

The way back was far more downhill than up. I left my skins on for the initial descents, which allowed me to be slow and controlled where the cornice overhangs didn’t leave much room for maneuvers. 

I stopped a couple times to put snow into my diminishing supply. I hung the bladder outside my pack so that the sun would melt everything sooner.

When the outhouse was back in sight, I finally took the skins off so I could cruise downhill fast. I made a couple of telemark turns in the corn mush. My right binding popped twice and I ended up using a cam strap to hold the sucker down.

Going up the final hill, I skied as far as I could without skins, then took my skis off to march up the dry part of the hill.

I was getting near the bike, when I heard the trickle of water. Oh, thank God!

It was dripping off the 15-foot cut above the road. I hastily refilled the bladder and then tilted my head back to catch even more water for myself.

I got my bike together below camp where I found a quart of warm water inside the Arizona jug. I mixed some snow in and then drank all of that too.

The bike ride along Obstruction Point road was more fun as a net downhill, though I still had to take it carefully along the washboard and with my loaded bike. 

There were more people walking the road today.

“You brought everything but the house!” a man remarked.

I came to the steep half-mile uphill back to the Hurricane Ridge Road, where I guessed that I’d have to walk my bike, but I found myself feeling stronger than I’d thought.

“Hup! Hup! Hyah!!” I cried as I clambered to the top.

Finally, I got back to the pavement. There was still time to make a Mother’s Day call to the east coast. The gravity that I’d struggled against the day before tugged pleasantly at my bike. Down I went.

These late spring days, it was strange to see how far to the north the setting sun had wandered. I was grateful that it kept the road illuminated and warm. I flew past a ruffed grouse with beautiful neck feathers puffed out. It was too narrow on this section of road to pull over. Keep going.

No more snow now. Here are the beautiful fir trees again. So tranquil. Moisture returned to the atmosphere and my nostrils felt normal again. I took a detour down the Mount Angeles road where the light was heartbreaking gold amidst succulent leaves of maples, the emerging devil’s club, the nubs that would become salmonberries over the next weeks. Cut grass of farm fields. Grazing animals, suburban houses, people walking on the sidewalk by the high school, the neighborhood where I live.

I swung up over the curve and swooped through the opening in the fence to the edge of the doorstep.

I looked ruefully at the skis strapped to my bike frame. I had struggled with whether I should take them back down with me or if I should leave them for a future doorstep adventure. How nice it would be to bike up there without the ski and boot weight to deal with. Maybe I would take on Moose Mountain. Yet I also knew that the snow was diminishing fast. I also knew that I had other adventure and life ambitions in the weeks ahead.

Perhaps it was better to bring it all back down and not try to recreate an experience that, really, couldn’t have been more perfect.

The skis go where the snow goes

The snowball of damocles. I skied a little faster past here.

The way down

The Hurt-y Thirty: Adventures in Birthday Mileage

Sunrise near Hollywood Beach, my base of operations
for my 90-mile birthday adventure

The idea to turn my birthday into a solo 90-mile relay event came to me randomly while I was out running. 

Running birthday miles was nothing new to me — or for my Dad who is responsible for starting the tradition. I’d already planned to run 30 miles that day to mark my 30th — much as I’d run my 29th, my 28th, my 27th. But now I had a whole new decade moving in with all its heavy psychological baggage weighing down.

I needed some stronger juju to pull myself up to this next level. 

OK, so what if I ran 30 miles and then kayaked 30? That sounded better. But, ending with two events seemed off-balance somehow, unfinished. Right, so I had to throw in a bike event too. Thirty miles of pedaling would be the last segment. of the day. I would call it the Hurt-y 30. If I finished downtown, I would follow up with an immediate beer and pizza.

I laughed aloud, as I occasionally do when I run alone. What a stupid plan! It sucked that I had to do it now.

Watch Video:

The Hurt-y Thirty

Running

I started running down the street outside my apartment at midnight.

I was starting with an easy 1.4 mile loop, with the hopes that I could trigger my morning bowel movement early. Alas, no luck.

I ran in the cool of a plump moon — below moon-washed snow on the mountains. The short warm-up ended with me getting into my car and droving to the base of operations I had chosen for myself at Hollywood Beach, downtown Port Angeles. I ran beneath the streetlights along the deserted waterfront, then up Hill Street onto the bluffs toward the Olympic Discovery Trail, a corridor beneath dark pines. I flicked my headlamp on. The pavement glimmered in front of me in a ghostly pool. This would be my world for many miles. 

Night running takes its toll in monotony. I’ve found that I consistently run much slower than I think I am going, even when it feels like I am pushing myself, somehow I find myself running below average.

So I shuffled slow through the miles along the Discovery Trail, until I jogged over the bridge over the Elwha River. 

I took heart at the sight of moonlight dancing over the dark current. This was my turnaround. I chewed mechanically on a Clif bar and began the slog back to Hollywood. By the time I got downtown, I was 16 miles into the 30. Another man with a headlamp was going through the gas station Dumpster. The courthouse bell rang three times. Damn. I was falling behind the goal.

I found myself stopping at my car to drink water and eat granola. Then I ran out to the Elwha a second time, resolved to pick up speed. Yet, bathroom stops, food and goofing with the camera ate into this time.

When I returned to Port Angeles it was 6 a.m. This timing meant that, since midnight, I’d been averaging slower than 12-minute miles, a pace that would have put me near the back of the pack of elementary schoolers doing the mile run.

If there was any consolation prize for being slow, it was the opportunity to watch the sun come up through the beams of the Japanese Peace Bridge over Valley Creek. The bright orb left a fiery trail on the harbor water — the setting for my next test.

Kayaking

Eating, drinking, changing clothes are all real things that take time. Because they are mundane, however, it is easy to underestimate just how much time they take out of an event. In this case, the time to get from running to kayaking was about an hour. 

My slow run had already put me an hour behind my predictions, but I couldn’t just make up that time by jumping into the kayak immediately. I had to deal with the usual body-temp plunge that follows exercise. I wrapped myself in my orange puffy and drank hot tea from my thermos, took another bathroom break and crammed handfuls of granola into my overstuffed  gob. Carrying my boat to the water beneath 30-mile legs was no joy.

Now it was 7 a.m.. My arms felt weak, my legs were cramped. I was in a lightheaded, out of body feeling. My dilated pupils suffered in the bright light off the water.

A solitary loon floated beneath Klahhane Ridge.

At least the harbor views were beautiful. The scenery wasn’t going to change much for a while. 

The kayak course I had mapped out was a monotonous four laps around Port Angeles Harbor. While boredom was bound to be a disadvantage for this course, some positives included the fact that the waves couldn’t get huge here like they could in the open strait. I was comfortable going without my drysuit and could therefore paddle faster without overheating.

When I finished the first, lap however, it was clear that I was still lagging. 2 hours and 15 minutes per lap would put me on pace for a 9 hour paddle. Then, I had to get out of the boat to stretch legs, drop a layer and get more food out of the car. OK, that was another 15 minutes gone. At this rate, it would be a 10 hour paddle.

Once I’d stuffed down more granola, I felt strength return. I switched direction so that I did this lap clockwise around the harbor. This allowed me to fight the wind and ebbing tide at the beginning of the loop where there were many piers and anchored ships that I could draft behind. When I turned around to go east, I had a long straightaway down Ediz Hook, where I could rip down open water with the elements at my back.

I made this lap in two hours, even accounting for the break that I took beneath Rayonier Pier to admire enormous colonies of tube worms, mussels and sea stars on the pilings. 

The third lap included a lunch stop at the west end of the harbor. I stopped here because the elements would be carrying me in the direction that I wanted while I took my break. 

As I noshed on a peanut butter sandwich, several shiny heads with coal dark yes bobbed in the water around me. I counted a dozen seals who had been following me the last 20 minutes. Several of the bolder ones would pop up about a kayak length behind me then go back down with a terrific splash when I looked at them.

By the time I’d finished this third lap, it had taken me 2 hours and 15 minutes. I stayed in my boat and flung myself into the last loop with renewed purpose. 

I went back to paddling counterclockwise so that I could take advantage of the gathering flood tide — but of course now the wind was picking up again. I paddled hard past the Coast Guard base and the net pens where Atlantic salmon thrashed in their rope cages.

I turned around to go east a final time. The wind started whipping up the water, lashing it into small angry white caps. 

I managed to surf the hotheaded little waves, bounced through the chop from fishing boats and reflector waves ricocheting off tugs. I had to make a series of paddle braces and move my hips to keep the boat upright. 

When I got back to Hollywood, it was 4pm. My legs were a joke. I pulled my boat on shore, heavy with the slosh of water that had infiltrated its way in. I turned it upside-down with a half-hearted shake to empty it. There was surely plenty of water left, but I didn’t want to deal. I lifted the beast up onto my shoulder and staggered drunkenly up the steps to my car. 

The wind had stolen my warmth again — so I got back in my puffy and sat in the solar-heated car. I stuffed more food into my mouth, and Gatorade. I just needed one more rally.

Biking

I emerged from the car, pulled my bike from the back, put the front tire on, and took a seat. I started pedaling for the Elwha River. It was 5 pm.

Given how flimsy my legs had felt when I got out of the kayak, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself feeling strong now. I got up out of the saddle and pumped my way up Hill Street and onto the Discovery Trail.

The wind was far mellower away from the water. Earlier, I had planned to do some of my bike miles on Ediz Hook, where the wind would be blasting. Now, I decided to just go back over my running route. 

I thoroughly enjoyed being able to cruise the flats and cover ground with minimal effort. Did I say enjoy? Yes. The sun was still out, and the sun shone like a thousand paper lanterns through the new green leaves. Walkers and bikers wore smiles and waved eagerly.

I emerged at the Elwha in about 45 minutes. I was holding down about a 10 mile an hour pace, which still seemed slow, but I’d also lost time city biking earlier on. I went east a short ways past Hollywood to make an even 15 miles, then I began my final bike lap. 

My front derailleur got fouled up, so I couldn’t get the chain to stay in high gear. While this slowed me down, it also meant thatI had an excuse to pedal easier. My final lap felt fine and my energy stores were stable. I had a final sandwich on the Elwha Bridge and cruised into Port Angeles at 8 pm, right as the sun was going down.

My good friend Vanessa gave me a shout out as I pedaled along the waterfront. 

“How’re you doing.”

“Not so bad,” I remarked. Legs, arms, back, everything felt pretty good, not smashed up the way it would be it I’d, say, run a marathon all out. I definitely felt tired though.

“I pizza and beer sound pretty good right about now,” I said.

Video: Doorstep Spaliday

I go on one of my Doorstep Adventures — biking from home in Port Angeles, Washington over to the Elwha River valley where I go past the road washout, cut some downed trees, visit the hot springs, camp and go snowshoeing below Appleton Pass. Because of the restricted access, there were few people in the valley. There was ample opportunity to appreciate early spring scenery like skunk cabbage blossoms, deer and warm sun on the pine branches.

https://vimeo.com/263770668

The fight for water hits the street: At the Trans Mountain Pipeline protest in British Columbia

Protestors at the pipeline gates

It wasn’t where you’d expect to see a salmon run, here in an asphalt parking lot beneath the sleek monorail station in Burnaby — just outside Vancouver.

Yet salmon had come to this place; so had a sea otter, a great blue heron. 

The whales were strong here too.

Black and white orcas were painted on protest signs, including those of my group, Olympic Climate Action. Six of us had carpooled from Port Angeles, Washington across the border to Canada the night before to attend an international march against a tar sands oil pipeline project that would threaten orcas and humans alike. Two of our members walked in orca costumes. Overshadowing everything, someone had built enormous three dimensional orcas out of fabric. These were easily the size of the real deal. While orcas and salmon might not get to cast votes in elections or weigh in on opinion polls, here on the streets, they made their presence known.

The humans would do the same. The march had managed to gather 10,000 demonstrators. A group beat tribal drums; their song and chant rising above the beat.

“We won’t stop until we win!” they cried.

“We won’t stop until we win!” we answered.

“Kinder Morgan’s got to go!”

“Kinder Morgan’s got to go!”

Kinder Morgan is the Texas oil company pushing for the Trans Mountain Expansion Project— over 7 billion dollars of new pipeline infrastructure to link the tar sands of northern Alberta to port in Burnaby, near our protest site. The capacity would be 890,000 barrels of oil. For comparison, that is 30,000 more barrels than the proposed Keystone XL pipeline would carry. 

Some may wonder why, as a US Citizen with plenty of other outrages to worry about at home, that I was bothering to protest on Canadian soil. Unfortunately, if the pipeline does go through, it will have an enormous impact at home.

All that oil will jackknife the number of oil tankers going through the Strait of Juan de Fuca by as much as 700 percent according to the Sierra Club.

That number means danger for places like Freshwater Bay near Port Angeles, where I saw my first (and only) pair of wild orcas surface unexpectedly within a stone’s throw of my kayak. If one of the tankers spills, the shoreline there will be clustered with tar balls, dead fish floating in oily water. The noise alone from all these ships promises to devastate the critically endangered population of Southern Resident orcas that rely on sound to communicate at sea. With only 76 of these whales left, it is likely that there were more whales at the protest than there are in the Salish Sea.

And then there’s climate change. Enough carbon sits locked up in Alberta’s tar sands that burning this oil would be “game over for climate,” according to James Hansen, the scientist who first brought global warming to national attention in the ’80s.

On the streets of Burnaby however, it was game on.

Thousands of marching bodies formed a pipeline of humanity as far as I could see forward and back. We filed past the gates of a rich neighborhood where a Range Rover and a sports car stopped dead to a halt as the protestors streamed past.

“Looks like they chose the wrong day to try to go anywhere,” one man remarked. 

Amidst all these people, young and old, there was a surprising number of baby carriages in the crowd. Older kids marched and held signs. Only a few days later, high school kids in Port Angeles would have a walk-out to protest school shootings.

If the Parkland protests were on the mind of many in the march, so was the #MeToo movement.

“No consent? Your pipe doesn’t get laid,” was one of the more clever signs.

I reserve my favorite spot, however — for concept and execution — for the sign that read “Justin’s in Bed with Kinder + Morgan.” The painting features Prime Minister of Canada is dressed in PJs holding the covers with an expression of sleepy wonderment. On the other side of the bed, two porcine execs in suites gaze back at him, smugness writ large across their bloated faces.

The hip, compassionate, progressive image that Justin Trudeau projects didn’t carry much water with the crowd in Burnaby. No amount of rousing words or woke selfies will change the fact that He has tied his political legacy to tar sands oil. He has pushed hard for the Kinder Morgan pipeline, even as British Columbia’s government opposes it along with 17 First Nations and 20 cities and towns.

My favorite sign

The show of people on the streets was only one component of a fight waged in courts, including lawsuits levied by the British Columbian government and by tribes.

Another show of resistance came from “Camp Cloud,” a trailer that activists had illegally parked in front of the Kinder Morgan pipeline station months ago. The protestors danced on the rooftop and solicited cheers from the marchers. Several of the protest coordinators were on the ground to tell people to keep moving. Kinder Morgan had won an injunction making it illegal for demonstrators to get within five meters of Kinder Morgan property. Still, the threat wasn’t enough to deter many from getting their pictures taken at the gate with defiant signs. More recently, protestors did get arrested while blocking the entrance there.

After the gate, the protest, moved on to the “Watch House” that tribal activists were building where they could set up a lasting encampment against the pipeline. This was the end of the march and the beginning of a series of speakers that included several from Canadian First Nations and US tribes who were united against pipeline.

My group lingered near the sidelines of all the speeches where people were bustling and striking up conversations with each other. As our group chatted with the various attendees, a small blond-haired girl came up to my friend Ed (he was in an orca costume) for a hug. Without prompting, she pointed at our orca signs showing that she wanted to carry one around around. 

We gave her the one that said "Our Children's Future Over Profit," and she made her way around the crowd, gathering little clusters of people who would stop to admire and chat. This turned out to be some awesome marketing, because everyone wanted to pay attention to the the cute kid holding the sign.

Her mom and dad watched their daughter work the crowd with charisma and élan. Later, Ed gave her the orca costume for some more networking. Meanwhile, 13-year-old Autumn Peltier from Ontario, spoke about how important it was for her to protect water. Famously, she told Trudeau to his face, “I am very unhappy with the choices you’ve made.”

I thought about the many parents in the crowd that day who had decided it was important to show their young ones what they believed through action. When you love something, you fight to protect it.

The tragedy was that for seeing all this beauty, energy and defiance in people, I still doubted whether it would be enough to meet the darkness. The shear amount of money that the people are up against boggles the mind. We are seeing now, how unrestricted money has allowed countless dirty tricks in the U.S. election amongst other places. This monetary effluent tries to submerge all other voices and pollute democracy. Yet, the dissidents continue to say “me too” and demand a hearing.

The generations lean together, shoulders against the wheels of injustice and push back for a future that holds compassion and life. 

Hopefully, that future will have whales in it too.

Deer Park Doorstep Return

The Deer Park Road with skis and bike

Heavy Pedaling

The faded pink nylon strap looped around the bike frame, just below the handlebars, behind the fork. The tips of my telemark skis and ski pole handles went through here. The panniers on the rack clipped over the skis’ midpoint and then the last couple feet hung off the rear of the bike like a pheasant’s tail.

Hold together.

I gave it all a big shake to see if anything wanted to come loose, but nothing budged. Ready for this?

It shouldn’t be that hard, the overnight trip. 

Yet, I shuttled back and forth between my room and the front yard for the umpteenth time like a compulsive. I was falling behind schedule again. I’d decided to play music the night before rather than finish packing, and now I was paying for it.

Parameters are always tighter than you think they’re going to be. If you spend too much time screwing around in the morning, where will you be at sunset? Cooking dinner by the fire at Deer Park Campground? Pedaling up the switchbacks praying that you put the headlamp in your jacket pocket? Lying in your room reading about someone else’s adventure because you were too lazy, you didn’t have it together and you blew it again?

I want these adventures to be fun, but it’s the hard work and suffering that ultimately make them worthy.

In this case, I could have saved hours and a couple thousand calories by just loading skis in my car and driving up the Hurricane Ridge Road to snow line. But knowledge is dangerous. I know my car is an emissions machine that turns beloved snow into runoff. I also know I can get to the snow under my own power. Better to save the carbon and mortify the flesh.

Clouds had opened to reveal the gleaming slopes of Klahhane Ridge above Port Angeles, a chill in the air that was crisp, not the soggy numbness of the earlier gray weeks. The sun was high enough so I could feel warmth on my shoulders. Hallelujah sun! Alas for late beginnings. 

It’s 9:30, you slacker! Move!

My first pedal strokes lurched. The skis on the side of the bike frame forced me to adopt a slightly bowlegged posture. It was a compromise, but I wouldn’t have traded it for the shaky A-frame rig I’d used with skis earlier. My back was also far happier than it was last year when I’d loaded everything onto my spine. 

The rigging got its first real test when I turned onto Peabody Street for a big descent through city traffic.

The brakes shuddered, and the extra weight meant more time needed to kick off once traffic lights turned green. It all felt stable though, and fairly safe. As usual, I noticed people giving me  second glances as I went past. I’m sure they thought I was unhinged. Who is this man with the enormous backpack biking through town with skis on his bike?

Pedaling through an urban space with my hardcore (or hobo-core) outdoor gear may seem dissonant, yet, I partly enjoy the out of place-ness. Even an asphalt street can be part of a narrative that climbs to jagged peaks.

Or at least finds an asphalt bike-path. The Discovery Trail, along the Salish Sea, was a nice improvement from city riding.

I got to enjoy a couple of miles of flats with the best scenery you could ask for. Mount Baker loomed above the San Juan Islands. The peak was 80 miles off, but hyper-visible in the cool, dry air. Further flung Canadian peaks glittered in the distance.

Eventually, the trail cut into the woods, across the old rail trestle above Morse Creek. Tiny green leaves sprouted out of branches — a disturbing development for early February. The forces of warming hard at work on Highway 101, which was glutted with weekend drivers headed for Port Angeles. The dip beneath the overpass would be my last downhill for a while.

Then, I’d be looking at nine miles of climbing to where the pavement ended at the beginning of Olympic National Park, seven more miles of climbing to the Deer Park Campground at 5,000 feet. Somewhere in there, I’d encounter snow, but I didn’t know when or if it would become skiable in this powder-lean year.

The first snow sign was the pine tree frosting at the top of the foothills, though I doubted it indicated anything deep enough to ski in. I took a short break to eat and drink, then started pedaling for the highlands. 

It took about an hour of climbing the pavement before I started seeing little traces of white in the shadows of a clear cut. Another mile later, I saw the gate for Olympic National Park. A few cars were parked there with people milling about. Some of them, I found out, hadn’t realized that the road would be closed here. Not closed to me though. I had miles to go, onward and — uhhh… why was the bike getting so hard to pedal? 

A tanker ship moves in front of Mount Baker as I pedal out of Port Angeles

Deflated expectations

I looked down to find the rear tire smushed flat against the pavement. 

Here it was, just as I’d feared: the snafu of the day.

I have switched out road bike tires without the aid of levers, and someone had told me that mountain bike tires are usually easier. Hence, I had not bothered bringing any levers with me.

As I struggled to get the bead of the tire off the wheel with my cold fingers, I realized that some nice firm levers (ounces of weight added to my load) would have pretty nice right then.

In some ways it would be better to have broken down in the remote mountains, more helpless, but without anybody to feel like an idiot in front of. A gray-haired couple ambled over to render assistance.

They didn’t have any levers, but they did have a pair of pliers with an end that I could jimmy beneath the tire bead.

 I combined these with my own allen wrenches (not good for the rim, but you gotta do what you gotta do). After I got the tire off, I put my replacement tube in and pumped it up. I gave the pliers back with a thank you and my benefactors who were heading back down the road.

As soon as they left, a new visitor arrived.

I had a new visitor who was a mill worker, just moved to the peninsula from Spokane to find a work and to try to get over alcoholism. He helped me push the tire back on, expostulating about how it was impossible to look at the beauty in the mountains around us without believing in God. I tried to explain, politely, that as an non-believer, I still found a deep measure of solace and wonderment in the mountains. There was a helpline for atheists at Alcoholics Anonymous now he said, but added (with satisfaction?) that a woman in his group had tried calling and found no one to talk to.

I reckoned that I probably disagreed with my new helper over a thing or two, but the rim of the tire was an almighty beast to get back on and the second set of hands made the job go much more easily. I mm-hmmed in the right places and started pumping up both tires extra full.

It was 3p.m.. I’d lost an hour. Hopefully nothing else blew, because I didn’t have another spare tube nor a patch kit.

I thanked the man, who got back into his truck to head back down to the coast, where the sun still shone brightly. The mountains above brooded in unwelcoming purple gray clouds. That was where the cellphone coverage ended and real hardship began.

If I turned back from the challenge, it would only be a half hour downhill riding to get back in the warmth. I’d get back home just before dark. Easy. Then I would have to pretend that I never bothered with this crazy trip.

Otherwise, it would mean that I’d truly softened up, that perhaps it was time to put away my self-image as an adventurer or as someone who pushes himself.

These thoughts swirled around as a group of armed men began shuffling past me toward the unofficial gun range next to the road — the place where I’d camped last summer.

They set up and commenced to engage the enemy with a fusillade of black powder and semiautomatic firepower.

I exited the perimeter via the Deer Park Road gate, onto the road where no trucks would pass. It felt like I was escaping the third world war. Up the switchbacks I went toward the clouds, into the snow. Blam! Blam! Blam!

I pedaled until I was warm again and had to peel. Snow was now dusted on the salal leaves and hemlock boughs. Snow on was starting to gather on the road surface as well. This was still too shallow for skiing, but it was just deep enough to make extra work for my bicycle.

The effort of pedaling kept me warm in the way that you feel when you know that you can go to freezing cold in an instant. I was nervous I would end up setting up shivering while trying to set up camp.

Circumstances had been similar for the suffering-rich night I’d spent in the outhouse at the Heart Lake Campground, an ordeal that had also stated when I started pushing the clock going uphill in cold weather.

At least if I made it to the Deer Park Campground, there would be larger, handicap style outhouses — a Ritz Carlton for the dirtbag camper. The sound of strong winds rustling the trees above gave me second thoughts though. It was 4:15 and I was still far from such sumptuous accommodations. The higher I climbed, the more exposed I’d be. If not the outhouse, I would need the tarp and I’d need time to set it up with everything else..

Camping along the roadside was its own challenge. Other than the road itself, the land was tilted steeply. Also, I had neglected to refill my water at the last stream, and now there was nothing nearby. Here in the rain shadow of the Olympic Mountains, there were very few options to refill my water supply. Promising gullies that would gushed with water in Port Angeles were bone dry. The best water source was the thin dusting of snow on the ground.

I found myself climbing up an embankment so that I could find flattish place to camp on the ridge line. I pitched tarp over some dry moss on a moderate slope between some narrow spruce trees. I walked among pines, knocking snow off of the boughs into my bear can, scooping more of it off the salal.

The heavy fuel canister that I’d had in my closet had been a reluctant add-on to my burgeoning gear collection leading up to the trip. It turned out that this was exactly what I needed that evening: abundant fuel that I used to melt down the powder. The bits of bark and goatsbeard lichen that I’d dislodged garnished the pea soup I boiled for myself. I nestled up into my sleeping bag and went to sleep on the tilted ground.

Tarp tent camp

A shot at Blue Mountain

The morning after, it was the usual sluggishness, reluctance to leave sleepy warmth for cold elements. I spooned breakfast of lichen-enriched oatmeal, then proceeded to march all my gear back down to the bike. 

I pedaled hard for a couple miles uphill with the weight of skis and gear through the shallow snow. A pall of frozen mist ghosted through the trees. Here and there I had to get off my bike to push it up a deeper section of snow. Though it was tempting to just ditch the bike and start skiing, there would inevitably be another section of road up ahead where the wind had blown the snow away to bare gravel.

Then it was back into the deeps. I gritted my teeth and aimed for a brown plastic marker staked into the road, I was going to make it there, dammit. Tires slowed; neck veins popped out.

“C’mon! C’mon!” 

The pedals stopped and the bike toppled. I fell off the seat and over the snowy embankment. My slide stopped ingloriously with my feet above my head and bare belly resting on the snow. The hill sloped down steeply, so it was tough work squirming my legs back under me to regain my feet.

I got back to the bike, reset the twisted bike-rack and started pushing through the powder.

Five minutes later, the snow was just as deep. I was ready for a break.

I threw on the layers, sucked down water, and started gathering snow to melt. 

The stove gave me a reviving warm pasta meal.

Suddenly, the cold gray miasma broke open. There was blue sky. Just 50 feet above, the mountain slope burst into brilliant color — warm light on the snow, diamonds on the branches.

The sun shone on the road just a hundred feet up. It was time to move.

I took the skis off the bike, put my telemark boots on, clipped in and started shuffling up the road. I was climbing without skins, favoring kick wax smeared on the ski bottoms. This gave me enough grip to take on the moderate slope angle, and gave me better speed than skins would have.

Skinny nordic skis would have carried me even faster, but I would have maxed out their capabilities with the steep icy turns waiting when I went back downhill..

Ice clouds drifted in and out, half veiling the light. Even the compromised sunshine was spiritual balm. I remembered what a joy it was to be in bright light over white snow, took pleasure in the way my surroundings popped in the crisp illumination. I thought of other smiling days I’d spent on mountains in Wyoming or Colorado, or in the Whites back east.

The warm rays also brought my core temperature up again. I was beginning to roast in my many layers, but rather than peel, I just skied slower. I was sure the cold would come back soon enough. A dark cloud mass was bearing down out of the west trailing gauzy curtains of white flakes. The trees were thinning now. Whatever was coming, I would get it full strength.

The sun opens over the valley below Deer Park Road

The wind-scoured zones above the road

Clear skis and cleared out slopes — Watch what happens in 15 minutes though

And the snow came in

I finally skied into Deer Park Campground, pumping my fist in victory. This had been the furthest point I had skied to last year. Now, there was less than a mile to go until I hit the summit of Blue Mountain. I was gliding along nicely on the skis, making good time. Yet the clouds were closer now.

The road climbed into an alpine steppe, with shrubs blasted free of snow. Only the gravel road held onto a residue of white — barely enough to ski over. I had to shuffle so I wouldn’t scrape up the bottoms. 

A blast of wind nailed me and whipped flakes into my face.

Visibility dropped to perhaps a hundred yards. The road was difficult to distinguish from anything. I started worrying about about how I would retrace my steps if the weather deteriorated more. I shuffled on anyway, into a cluster of pines where  snow was deeper and I had a short respite. The wind showed no sign of calming, though. Soon I was out of the trees again, in the teeth of the storm. The view to the west was endless gray.

Now there was a turn in the road.

Wait? Was that the road over there? Or was that it to the right? The washed out snowscape offered few clues. There was a notch in the hillside above me that looked road like, so I started side climbing towards it. The snow was ice hard. I squinted from my new vantage point; it looked like a road, yes, but maybe I was wishful thinking. One thing I knew: finding my way back down in the current visibility would be tough. Meanwhile, my watch said it was 1:50 — ten minutes before my designated turnaround time. How much further up was the mountaintop? 200 feet above? It had to be close. The western view was only more flakes and darkness.

I decided to call it.

Descent and the validation of the doorstepper 

I cut my way down the crust face on my metal edges, then it was a fun glide over the road. I ski-walked delicately on the shallow snow, then regained my speed at the Deer Park Campground. 

A blurred group of forms stood in the road. I approached, realized that they were a group men and woman on a ski trip.

They were as surprised to see me as I them. 

“Say, how much further can you ski down this road?” one of the men asked.

“What, didn’t you see my bike? I asked.”

It turned out that they hadn’t seen my bike because they were coming from the other direction, via the  They had skied from the Hurricane Ridge Road, and over Obstruction Point Ridge, where they had camped the night before.

I broke the news that they wouldn’t get to ski much longer. Beyond my bike, they probably had about a five-mile walk back to the park entrance where their vehicle was waiting.

They had enjoyed an enviable blue bird day up on the Obstruction Point the day before, but I didn’t envy the long walk they had ahead of them, fully loaded with skis and boots. They’d be huffing for hours under the load, while I cruised out of there on wheels.

They seemed like fine people, but I’ll admit it; I felt a little smug. 

They burned the gas driving from Seattle. They had driven to the top of Hurricane Ridge and back up the Deer Park Road to the gate. They’d had their fun skiing, but now they got to pay the piper, while the doorstep adventurer sat pretty.

Before I left, a woman asked if there was a good spot to get food and beer in Port Angeles. I knew a few places.

“We’re going to need it after this.”

I skied down ahead of them, but they passed me as I loaded the skis on my bike. I heard the collective groan go up when they found out where the snow ended. I turned the bike around and started pedaling. It was sketchy going in the deeper snow, but I could stabilize myself by putting a foot out outrigger style. I also had to watch out for the occasional ice patch where I’d avoid turning or braking hard.

Within five minutes, I re-encountered the skiers, who were trudging down the road under heavy packs. I cruised by.

It felt awesome, honestly. 

“There’s a smart idea!” Someone called. “I like your rig.” 

“Thanks,” I said. “But, to be fair, it was a real bear getting it up this far.”

Another humbling reality was that I was only one flat tire away from having the worst slog out of everyone. I really hoped I didn’t blow a flat.

Going down the mountain road made for fun riding. The snow smoothed out a lot of the teeth-chattering bumps I had weathered last summer. Another improvement: I didn’t have to worry about cars bearing down on me and could cruise where I pleased. It was a nice payoff for the hard work needed to get up the hill.

I was cruising down into a corridor of salal, highlighted nicely by the snow on the green leaves.  The flakes had stopped at this point.

I passed the park gate and back onto the paved road, where I had a prime view of the sunlit strait, still far below.

I just needed gravity to take me there. The struggles of the past hours faded as I gave myself to the exultation of the ride.

Sure, I hadn’t quite made the Blue Mountain summit, but I blamed it more on circumstances than a failure of will. It would have been different if I’d turned around the day before. I’d made it further up the road than I had last winter, so that was something.

I rolled down into rural suburbia, where the snow ended, the sun was shining and most people were dressed casually. The mountain chill was still with me and my parka and ski goggles stayed in place.

Finally, I got to the shoreline, where I parked my bike to go touch the water. Little wavelets were coming in golden on the afternoon sun — above them the luminous slopes of Baker. A stipe of bull kelp startled me when it popped beneath my ski boot. Funny that not long ago I had been at almost 6,000 feet in the snow world. Tragically, the view to the top of Blue Mountain was clear as crystal.

I sighed. Maybe next time.

I got a second glance when a passing biker saw me, still in a parka, still in ski goggles.

“Hey!” I almost shouted. “I know I this looks crazy, but I was really using this stuff! I was skiing two hours ago.” 

I saved my breath. She probably would have thought I was crazy anyway.

Back at sea level